“_____________________faculty, attached please find a meeting notice and agenda for Friday, June 22, 2012 at 9:30 a.m. in Room —– of the M—- Building. The agenda item is a vote for ratification of the 2011 – 2016 faculty contract. Coffee and donuts will be provided.”

Second Son is putting together the longboard his father and I got him for his 19th birthday because I didn’t realize what an ordeal it would be to assemble it and did not click the “Assemble for $5” button.

I would think this was a mistake, but I actually think this is a good thing for him to learn how to do, and he is progressing nicely.

But there was this one moment, as he looked for a bolt or a nut or whatever he couldn’t find:

It just took me longer to hang up 3 towel rods and remove a new curling iron from its packaging than it would take a self-respecting nuclear physicist to disarm a weapon, and probably with more frustration and risk (to me) of physical injury.

Are you telling me that with today’s technology the best solution for hanging towel rods is still that tiny little screw driven into the bracket with an allen wrench that doesn’t really quite fit the nail head exactly? You’re crouched on the floor, where there’s no light, peering upward bewilderedly while trying to screw a microscopic screw into a microscopic hole while holding the towel bracket with one hand so the rod doesn’t gonk you on the head (again). How hard can it be?

And does a curling iron really need to be installed into a 3-compartment cardboard contraption, with each flap glued closed with super glue and then the whole thing machine-melded into a hard plastic shell that can’t be dismantled without a blow torch and/or a machete?

(Reminds me of the Bud Light commercial with the couple in the car and the hitchiker: “We should pick him up. Look, he’s got Bud Light!” (And an AXE!?!?!?!)

Where was I? Oh, yeah.

It’s a curling iron. It’s not a weapon.

It’s probably easier to buy a handgun; I’m sure it takes less time. Plus now I’m bleeding. Take THAT concealed weapon laws.

Husband’s birthday cake, once frosted, will contain 3 sticks of butter. I’m not exaggerating. I’m suggesting we just smoke a carton of cigarettes each and go remove asbestos from some falling down, lead-painted building and call it even.